Possibilities: A Contemporary Retelling of Persuasion Page 3

  Four

  Allie clutched the banister and tried to ignore the whispering pain in her left shin as she descended the steps. Every winter her shin reminded her of the ten-year-old ache in her heart, an ache that began at that Atlanta park. Try as she might, Allie couldn’t forget that day . . . or the last glance she’d caught of Frederick Wently as the ER team rushed her down the hallway.

  Aunt Landon said she explained everything to Frederick and that he preferred for Allie not to contact him. To underscore Landon’s claim, Frederick had never returned to his grounds manager position. Allie accepted the inevitable. She was left to sort out her broken heart alone. The only thing that brought her comfort was knowing she’d done what her family expected.

  But just about the time she thought she’d completely forgotten Frederick, winter would set in. With it came the vague reminder in her shin, which prompted her to relive the season of her life when she’d lost her heart . . . and the day she’d chosen her family over Frederick. Unfortunately, on lonely winter nights, her family’s approval did little to keep her warm. Ten long years had underscored this reality.

  Today was an icy February afternoon—a dreary day perfect for dragging out old memories and wallowing in what-if’s. The low-lying clouds and the promised cold preceding the predicted ice storm seeped into her heart, chilling it to the core. Allie took the final step off the mansion’s winding staircase and grimaced with the last dash of pain that pummeled her nerves. She glanced at her wristwatch and realized that once again she had perfectly met her family’s expectations. Aunt Landon told her to wait until three fifteen before entering the library where “the talk” was happening. It was exactly three fourteen.

  Her low-heeled boots tapping the marble floor, Allie strode toward the library’s closed door. As a child she’d thought the teak doors must have been cut from a giant’s forest. Now she recognized the carved doors as the works of art they were . . . along with everything else in this house. Allie placed her hand on the doorknob and turned to gaze across the foyer, crowned by a crystal chandelier, circa 1840.

  She never imagined leaving this home would catapult her into the sad longing that pulsated through her like a haunting dirge. But the finery wasn’t what held her heart. The memories did. This was the home to which she was born . . . and the home in which her mom drew her last breath. Turning the knob, Allie silently eased open the door and braced herself for whatever she was about to step into.

  “Rent the plantation?” Richard Elton boomed. “Landon, are you crazy?”

  Allie stopped. Her fingers tightened on the doorknob. Her focus riveted upon her red-faced father. Her knees weakened, and she held her breath.

  Two years ago, Allie recognized that her elder sister Evelyn’s flamboyant spending could become a problem. Last year she suspected that the problem was upon them. Within the prior month, her father’s creditors had forced him to realize that no one—not even the peach king of the south—could function as if funds were unlimited.

  A week ago Allie and Aunt Landon began to piece together a plan that would get the family out of debt and restore them to solvency. Or, rather, a plan sought them out. Aunt Landon had informed her it was the only sensible option. While Landon enjoyed her own wealth, she was also an astute businesswoman who understood the necessities of wise money management, no matter how wealthy a person was. In order to ensure her lifelong financial independence, she had chosen a spacious, one-story home with only three domestic employees instead of a fully staffed mansion.

  “Who would ever think of such a stupid plan as renting out the plantation?” Evelyn stated from the sofa. Even in surprised mode she carefully pronounced every word—just as she’d learned to do in her collegiate theater training. Evelyn slipped her socked feet from her loafers and tucked them under her. She took a long sip from her mug. Sometimes Allie wondered if every day was a new drama for Evelyn and nothing more.

  “Well, the opportunity seems to have fallen into your lap,” Landon explained.

  Richard jumped to his feet and turned on the fireplace like a general invading new territory. He grabbed the poker’s gold-plated handle and jabbed at the crackling flames. The scent of burning oak filled the room with the cozy suggestion that all was well in the Elton home.

  Allie stepped into the softly lit room and shut the door with a thump and click. Poker still in hand, her father twisted to face her. Evelyn shifted and turned to look at Allie. Landon, claiming the recliner across from the couch, followed suit.

  “Allie, there you are.” Landon tugged at her cowl-necked sweater. “I was just telling your father about the offer.”

  “Allie?” Evelyn exclaimed, her dark eyes flashing in the firelight. “What does she have to do with this?”

  “Nothing,” Landon replied. “Other than the fact that she knows about it and thinks it’s a good idea.”

  “Oh?” Richard lifted his groomed brows. Now in his late fifties, Allie’s father was every bit as handsome as he had been in his thirties. Those who knew him well said he’d changed little. His twenty-year-old portrait over the fireplace captured the strong jaw, straight nose, and prominent eyebrows that age had only improved—and maybe a regular regimen of Botox.

  “Allie also knows about this budget.” Landon lifted a portfolio. “She thinks it’s the best plan.”

  “Budget!” Evelyn’s voice erupted as she jolted forward. Hot cocoa sloshed from her mug and beaded on her angora sweater. She glared at Allie and spewed, “Don’t just stand there! Do something! Get me a towel! Anything! Can’t you see I’ve got a mess?”

  “Here. Use this cloth from the service tray.” Landon laid the proposed budget on Richard’s vacated chair and bent over the silver service set. She lifted the urn full of hot water and tugged the cloth from beneath it.

  Allie hurried forward and gathered up the teaspoons, extra mugs, and urn of cocoa mix. Aunt Landon said a modest, “Thanks, Allie,” while she handed the cloth to Evelyn, who’d never bothered to express gratitude in her whole life and wasn’t going to start today.

  With the sweater catastrophe at an end, Evelyn tossed the cloth onto the coffee table, which was carved as intricately as the doors, the mantel, and scores of other fine pieces throughout the home. She plunked her mug on the end table, flipped her straight blonde hair away from her face, and rested her arms on the low-backed settee on which she sat.

  As usual, Allie felt like a forgotten mouse in the face of Evelyn’s beauty. Evelyn had captured the stage in college and the society pages in her twenties. Now, at the age of thirty-seven, she was every bit as breathtaking as she’d been at twenty-seven, and the society editors still loved her. So did her father.

  Allie wondered if her dad might have loved her more if she’d been gorgeous instead of mildly attractive. She touched her hair, cropped in what her hairdresser claimed was a high-fashion stack. Evelyn could make straight and simple look like royalty, while Allie could spend hours at the hairdresser and not even come close.

  After an intense glaring session, Evelyn finally scoffed, “Whoever heard of an Elton living on a budget?”

  Allie exchanged a furtive glance with her aunt and settled in the straight-backed chair near the recliner. She lightly stroked her wool slacks and focused on the dancing fire.

  “Either you will go on a budget and rent the plantation or you will lose everything. It’s that simple,” Landon explained.

  Richard released the fireplace poker back into its holder with the grate and grind of ash-covered metal. He picked up the budget like an actor ready to read for a starring role. His turtleneck sweater and year-round tan heightened the effect.

  Her spine stiff, Allie prayed her father wouldn’t toss the budget into the flames and scorn wisdom.

  “And who do you propose is going to rent our plantation?” Richard asked, never taking his gaze from the financial strategy.

  “One of your key customers has approached me—

  “Approached you?” Richard boomed again and
glowered at Landon as if she were Benedict Arnold’s twin sister. “Why didn’t they approach me?”

  Allie’s shoulders hunched. Evelyn mimicked her father’s aloof expression.

  Landon never blinked. “Well, I just happened to be at a party, and we were talking. He halfheartedly said to let him know if you ever decided to lease the place. He loves the house, and having the peach orchards under his own management would cut out a purchasing step and up his profits.”

  “Are you going to tell me who it is?” Richard demanded.

  “Of course,” Landon replied and dusted a piece of lint from her pants. “It’s Cosby Enterprises.”

  “Cosby?” Evelyn mocked. “That sorry excuse for a cannery? Can they afford to lease all this?” She lifted both arms.

  “Apparently so,” Landon said. “They seem to have amassed quite a fortune.”

  Allie studied her father, who flipped to page two of the proposed budget. Eyes narrowed, he examined the print while Landon continued.

  “Peaches are the Cosby specialty,” she said. “Their offer to lease this place is generous. They’d take on the financial burden of running the whole operation. That would allow you to apply all profits toward your debts. If you follow this plan, your debts should be cleared in four years. You’d use the fifth year to save. The sixth year you could move back home. As long as you stay on your budget, you should be fine.”

  “Cosby,” Richard grunted with a bitter grimace. “Who are they, anyway, but blue collars who got lucky?” He tossed the budget to the coffee table, locked his fingers behind his back, and gazed toward the ten-foot ceiling.

  Landon cast an uncertain gaze to Allie, who fumbled with nothing and prayed her father wouldn’t throw away this opportunity. Renting the plantation was by far better than losing it altogether.

  Evelyn lowered her arms from the low-backed couch and reached for her cocoa mug. After a short sip, she mused, “Aren’t the Cosbys somehow related to that yardman who used to work here years ago? They’re the ones who recommended him for the position, if I recall. What was his name, anyway? Frank? Freddie? Fremont?”

  “Frederick, I believe,” Aunt Landon supplied, and Allie felt her concerned glance. “Frederick Wently. He’s Sophia Cosby’s brother.”

  Allie held her breath.

  “Ah yes, I remember him,” Richard said. “Believe it or not, their father wound up winning a place in the state senate. Who’d ever have imagined? I guess they haven’t done bad for blue collars.” He frowned.

  “I think I even remember seeing Frederick on the national news,” Evelyn continued. “Didn’t he win some kind of medal for bravery in the Afghanistan war?”

  Allie’s stomach churned. Yes, she thought, he did win a medal. She’d created a scrapbook dedicated to his honor. For several months, he’d become an American icon and was even featured in People magazine. The fact that his father had miraculously won and maintained a spot in the state senate had heightened Frederick’s appeal to the media. Shortly after Frederick joined the Air Force, Fred Sr. had rallied a strong financial backing from middle-income families across Georgia and defeated a long-seated, wealthy senator. All those clippings were in Allie’s scrapbook, as well.

  She gazed toward the beveled glass window cloaked in the latest in decor. The ivory gauze hanging from an iron curtain rod blurred with the bleak light seeping through ice-laden clouds. Bits of sleet pelted the window like the haunting memories stabbing her heart.

  Oh, Lord, she silently prayed, if you ever give me a second chance with Frederick . . .

  “Cosby,” Richard mumbled. “Whoever heard of an Elton bowing to a Cosby? They have no . . . no ancestry at all. Our family—we can be traced through the Revolution—to English noblemen.”

  “Who says we have to bow out, anyway?” Evelyn added and set her mug back on the end table. “If things are that desperate, why can’t we just cut back? I’d be willing to give up . . .” her gaze slid around the room, “to give up redecorating for a season or two.”

  Allie, impressed with even that concession, nearly applauded her sister.

  “And I guess I could go without a totally new wardrobe every season . . . maybe half of one.” Evelyn waved her hand, and the three-carat diamond on her right hand sparkled like stardust. “Maybe I could even sell a few pieces of jewelry.” Her lips drooping, she lowered her hand and eyed the ring that had been custom ordered from Tiffany’s. “Anything but having to leave the mansion.” She raised her gaze to her father, and her perfectly made-up eyes took on the pleading of an eight-year-old.

  The last time Allie remembered Evelyn looking so bleak was three years ago—the day she fully realized her pursuit of Brent Everson was for nothing. He was the only thing in life that had been denied her. She’d been a compulsive shopper ever since his marriage to their cousin, Chrissy Elton.

  “I’m afraid it’s going to take more than just selling a few pieces of jewelry and cutting back on the wardrobe.” Landon’s realistic tone rang with the chill of truth.

  Richard’s mouth turned down at the corners. A line formed between his brows. He shot a half-defeated glance toward Evelyn, who hung her head and rubbed her temple.

  Allie decided now was a good time to make the one suggestion she had considered from the start of this crisis. Even before she spoke, she knew what her father’s reaction would be. And she prayed the mere mention of the J word would catapult him to embrace the budget.

  “Well, I guess we all could get jobs.” Allie’s voice barely rose above a whisper.

  “Jobs!” The word reverberated around the room.

  “Are you nuts!” Evelyn shrieked and lunged forward.

  Allie shrank into her chair and didn’t say more. For years she had dreamed of taking a job teaching junior college—whether the family needed the money or not. But her father persisted in refusing.

  “Lowering ourselves to—to mere jobs,” Richard sneered, “is not an option under any circumstance!” He stomped his foot and picked up the budget.

  Landon and Allie exchanged a knowing glance while Landon offered a discreet thumbs-up.

  “I guess it could be worse,” he mumbled while flipping the pages. “At least the Cosbys have made something of themselves. Even though they lack class, they do have some money. I guess having a father in the senate speaks something for Sophia Cosby.” Richard glanced toward Allie. “Weren’t you and her brother friends at one point?”

  The question was so unexpected, Allie gripped the chair’s arm and swayed with the impact.

  “Yes, they were.” Landon’s casual claim gave Allie time to regain a semblance of composure. “Do you remember him, Allie?” Her aunt’s bland observation indicated nothing of the history that existed between her and Frederick. Indeed, Landon and Allie hadn’t even discussed him since that day at the hospital.

  Allie nodded and wondered if her aunt really thought she might have ever forgotten Frederick Wently. If the truth were known, she hadn’t dated another man. No matter how she tried, no one lived up to Frederick. No one.

  “What is your opinion of the family, then?” Landon continued.

  “Excuse me?” Allie croaked.

  “Wouldn’t you agree the Cosbys would be reputable lessees?” Landon widened her eyes and pointedly stared at Allie.

  “Oh, of course,” Allie agreed. How ironic, she thought, but as usual kept the remark to herself. Aunt Landon now wanted Allie to recommend a branch of the very family she once rejected as not good enough. Now Frederick Wently’s sister was wealthier than the Eltons. For all Allie knew, Frederick might be, too.

  As the conversation continued, Allie once again stared toward the gray sky now hammering the countryside with sleet. Longingly she wondered where Frederick was . . . what his life was like . . . if he’d ever married.

  Five

  A week later Frederick Wently went through the routine external checks on the Beechcraft King Air 200, then pulled down the airstair door and prepared to climb into the plane for his regu
lar flight. The thrill of piloting a sleek plane through the sky came close to the love of a woman. Today he’d fly from his home in Charlotte, North Carolina, to Atlanta, Georgia.

  A few years ago his brother-in-law, Darren, sold his private airport to the county. They’d gained FAA approval and had built a hangar that held twenty planes. Now the airport featured a daily flight for VIPs and dignitaries, with Frederick as star pilot.

  When Darren offered to plunk down the million dollars to purchase the seven-passenger plane, Frederick had been ecstatic. It was like owning his own aircraft, only better. Frederick got full use of the plane with no financial obligations. On top of that, Darren allowed him to pocket half the profit from the -passenger fares. All Frederick had to do was agree to be Darren’s pilot-on-call.

  Frederick had developed quite a clientele and a reputation for safety and dependability. Sometimes the flights involved business. Other times Frederick piloted people for pleasure appointments, such as banquets, campaigns, and cruises down the Mississippi. In the last couple of years, he’d shuttled people into scores of major cities across the United States.

  The medical discharge he received from the Air Force had included a significant retirement package. That, plus the money he’d saved, enabled him to continue the pursuit of his first love at his own pace.

  Well, maybe not my first love, he grudgingly admitted. With an icy February wind biting his face, he decided not to think about his first love. Thoughts of Allie Elton usually resulted in unquenchable longing tainted by anger and a bitterness he couldn’t shake no matter how hard he tried. Even after all these years, Frederick possessed word-for-word recall of that final conversation with Landon Russ. The memory was enough to make him want to break Allie’s heart as she’d broken his. But that was vengeful and anything but holy.

  We’re not going there today, he told himself, just as he’d told himself many times over the years.